


Personal

by trufflemores



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: 4.04, Angst, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rivalry, reaction fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-29 03:19:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores/pseuds/trufflemores
Summary: 4.04. One terrible day six years ago, Barry solved a crime that would launch a new rivalry.





	Personal

**Author's Note:**

> I love Ralph and Barry's dynamic and definitely want to confront it more in future fics, but for now, I offer you a piece about Barry's discovery of Ralph's original wrongdoing, and the fallout.
> 
> Enjoy!

With black-gloved hands, Barry holds the knife that did not kill Judy Giblin, and breaks out in a cold sweat.

He does not move. He cannot breathe. Standing behind him, the mortician finally asks, "Are you all right, Mr. Allen?"

Hands shaking, Barry gasps and nods, replacing the knife in its evidence bag. "I need to take a few pictures," he announces. His mouth is dry. His stomach hurts. He tries to avoid looking at the black trash bin next to the big blue door – they are two things he cannot turn to. He cannot run, and he cannot lose his gumption. _This is bigger than you. Man up_.

Forcing air into his deflated lungs, Barry strips off his gloves and places the clear plastic bag with the damning evidence on a blue table. He untucks a small black camera from its nest in the collar of his black shirt. Under the supervision of the blue-eyed mortician, Barry holds up his camera and takes four decisive shots of the chest wound in the damning blue light. With great composure, he returns the camera to its pouch, picks up his bag, thanks the mortician for his time, bows his head in silent homage to the dead, and vacates the room before his gumption fails him.

In the stairwell, on the long climb back to the land of the living, he calls Joe, but he cannot say a word, hanging up with a choked "I'll call you back." He snaps the phone shut, shoves it into his pocket, and runs for his life. Joe calls him back twice before Barry skids to his knees in front of a stranger's black trash bin. Gasping for breath, he hugs it to his chest and purges the last forty-five minutes from his soul.

Joe finds him ten minutes later because that's when Secretary Grace, the office's occupant, finds him. Walking over to him, Joe places both hands on Barry's shoulders and encourages, "Come on, Bar." In a daze, Barry rises and lets Joe apologize to Grace, who shrugs it off and encourages him to get well soon. Joe keeps an arm around Barry's shoulders and a firm hand on the bag of evidence. When they're in the elevator riding the rest of the way up, he unslings and takes the camera from Barry's neck, too. Shaking, Barry forcefully strips the black gloves from his hands, and Joe takes them, too.

With his arm on Barry's shoulders, Joe steers them towards Singh's office. When Joe taps on the door, Singh looks up from his desk, frowns, and waves a hand in a silent "come in." Joe obliges, and Barry follows him inside, mechanically compliant. Thoughtfully, Singh commands, "Shut the door." For good measure, Joe locks it.

"What happened?" Singh asks in a tone that could crack stone.

Joe guides Barry firmly into a chair, and plants the bag of evidence and camera on Singh's desk. "The Giblin case," he announces, taking a seat beside Barry directly across from Singh.

"Detective Dibny closed that case last week," Singh says, directing his gaze at Barry. "And I pulled you off it."

Barry clears his throat, ignores the appalling taste in his mouth, and finds his words. _An innocent man needs you_. "Sir, I found – compelling evidence to reopen it." His gaze slips involuntarily to the knife. Bile rises threateningly in his throat, but he swallows it down. "The knife – the serrations, they don't match the vic's wound. See—"

Clearing his throat, he leans forward and takes the camera, flicking it on and pulling up the most recent image. He zooms in carefully before turning it to Singh, who looks down at it obediently. "The size of the wound is consistent with the knife that Detective Dibny found, but the serrations are wrong." He clicks to the previous image: it's a closer shot, revealing more detail of the smooth-cut edges, a damning picture of a clean stab. "Sir, you'd have to take that kind of knife to a grinder for a very long time to remove the serrations."

Unconsciously, he reaches for his black gloves, and Joe hands them over without a word. Removing the knife from its bag, still grotesquely splattered with red blood, Barry holds the blade flat on his left palm and traces his right thumb across the edge. The serrations are small, cusp-shaped, like a steak knife. "Somebody obviously tried to sharpen it," he explains, gesturing at the vanishing, but still present, marks, "but you can still see the cusps. There's no jaggedness on the wound – and these would catch against skin."

With damning quietness, he finishes, "This knife is inconsistent with the weapon that killed Judy."

Singh looks at the image, then at the knife, and finally at Barry's eyes. "Barry," he says, and there's a soft remonstrance and stony approval there that makes Barry's throat feel tight, but he holds his composure, listening intently. "I pulled you off this case."

"I know." Barry sheathes the knife in the bag and clears his throat, afraid the slight highness in his voice will give away how close he is to surrendering his composure. He can't think about how much he would have given to be sitting here twelve years ago, shaking with something unnamable as he planted unassailable evidence before the captain to prove one truth: _he didn't do it_. "But I couldn't let an innocent man suffer for a crime he didn't commit."

Joe and Singh are silent. He knows they understand. He can almost see Joe apologizing for him, just as he had to when Barry stood in the center of the lobby two weeks ago and shouted at Singh that he didn't deserve to be pulled off a case because of something that happened to him twelve years ago. It made everyone go silent, and Barry instantly regretted it, but he couldn't take back his words, and Singh's order become ironclad. It was never about Barry's competency as a junior CSI – it was about his ability to handle a case like this.

_You're not a detective, or an officer. You're not even a full-timer. You are a junior CSI. This is not your territory. You will obey your superiors, or you will find a new line of work, Mr. Allen._

"I'll accept whatever punishment you see fit, sir," Barry says at last. "But I couldn't – I couldn't live with myself if I didn't follow this through."

Singh is silent for a long moment, considering him. Barry doesn't blink, holding his gaze, determined to meet his last moment as a CSI with his head held up. But Joe speaks first, his voice steady, firm: "This is more than just an overlooked detail, Captain. Dibny presented the evidence himself and claimed it was found in the Giblin's home. If Barry's assessment is correct—"

"Then we have a new problem," Singh finishes. His tone gives nothing away. He ignores Barry as he addresses Joe directly, explaining, "Dibny swore its veracity under oath. If this is false evidence – and I am inclined to believe it is – then we're looking at perjury."

Barry's stomach drops out, his head spinning, but he doesn't throw up. Maybe he can't. He hopes he can't, feels sick and embarrassed at the thought of proving the Captain's premonition correct, that he really is just that scared little boy incapable of separating emotion from truth, that he can't handle this case because it hits too close to home, that he—

Joe takes his right wrist and squeezes it. Barry takes a shallow breath and exhales, looking over at him. "It's not a given," Joe says, and Barry knows that tone, knows it like his last name. _I know you don't want to hear this._ But his next words offer finality instead of doubt. "But it's enough to reopen the case."

Singh says, "Allen, I want you to take the rest of the day off."

He should get up and leave, but instead he asks slowly, "What's going to happen to Detective Dibny?" Because it's the ice-cold truth, _Dibny lied under oath_ , that's starting to sink into his bones and make his hands tremble.

"He'll be tried," Singh finishes.

Joe puts a hand on Barry's shoulder and helps him to his feet. He stares at the evidence, reaching for it reflexively, but Joe pulls him away from it gently. "I'll – take him home," he says, and Singh nods, and then they're out of Singh's office again, moving across the lobby like nothing has changed, stepping into the elevator like nothing has changed, riding down in silence like nothing has changed, and finally stepping out onto the streets like nothing has changed.

It's snowing. Barry exhales, and his breath mists blue in front of him.

If he's right – and he knows in his gut he is right, knows like his name that he is _right_ , dammit – then Reagan will go free.

And Dibny …

* * *

"Hey."

Barry's shoulders tense. "Hey," he replies, with as much neutral politeness he can muster. He stays bowed over the microscopic, hoping to convey an air of great busyness. Dibny doesn't take the hint, stepping into the forensics' lab. It's been a week since Barry first presented the evidence to Singh, but the air between them is still razor-sharp.

"Hell of a space they give a lab rat," he muses. Sauntering over, he places a firm hand, a bruising hand, on Barry's shoulder. "I know the Giblin case hit home for you," he says.

"Take your hand off me," Barry directs quietly. Dibny ignores him, squeezing harder.

" _I know_ this must be tough. Traumatized kid confronts his past again. That's a tricky roll of the dice."

Leaning back from the microscope, still ensnared in Dibny's grip, Barry looks out the window at the falling snow and says firmly, "You planted evidence."

Dibny's hand spasms. With sudden sharpness, he jerks Barry around in his chair and demands, "You accuse me, a _detective_ , of planting evidence? You got a lot of spunk, kid."

Heart pounding, suddenly very conscious of the gun on Dibny's belt, Barry falls back. "I don't have anything against you."

Dibny shoves him back and Barry tenses involuntarily. He hates the sudden flush of fear that overtakes him. _You're not a kid_ , he tells himself forcefully, straightening his shoulders. He may not have outrun them, but he left his bullies behind years ago. "My God, you are a wonder." Then, in aggravated disbelief, Dibny raises a hand to his hair and expounds, "Wonder boy, here to save the day and let the murderer go free."

Barry snaps, lunging out of his chair and fisting Dibny's shirt by the shoulders, seething, "This is _not_ personal."

Dibny laughs, and it's a hollow, terrible thing, the final laugh of a man being led to his gallows, believing with heartbreaking seriousness that he was right all along. "Yeah, it doesn't feel personal at all," he says, and Barry tightens his hold. "You know, you assault an officer, you're coming right down with me, buddy. Why don't you, uh," leaning in to whisper it, he taunts, "get some of that anger off your chest, huh? Everybody here already thinks you're crazy. Captain just pities you because you've got a goddamn brain on your shoulders."

Barry shoves him back, and Dibny hits a chair, stumbling over it, barking another laugh. "Oh, that the best you got? C'mon, kid, it's Christmas break, give me something to remember you by! You know we're never gonna see each other again!" Then, simpering, he adds, "I'll write ya cards, if you like – 'you took us all down with you. Congratulations.'" With sudden, unmistakable fury, he snaps, "I might lose my _badge_ because of _you_!"

Barry's stomach sinks, but the fury won't leave his veins. "Good. _Good_. You don't deserve it." Meeting Dibny's eyes, fearlessly disregarding the bulk and gun against him, he snarls, "You're crooked. You planted evidence. You don't serve the law – you serve _yourself_."

Dibny lunges and catches him with a left hook, and Barry could, _should_ fall back, should respond utterly passively, should yell and let somebody below know what's going on, but he ran from bullies half his life and he's not running now—he responds in kind, throwing himself at Dibny, letting that tough skin take his punches, his pain, his frustration because _dammit I didn't do this to hurt_ you!

But he knew it would, knew the truth was going to pull down a man who had more swagger than Barry liked but who had nothing personal against him, nothing personal, and none of it was supposed to be personal.

He's lucky Detective Chrye is the one to thunder, " _Hey!_ " from the doorway. Had it been Singh who found them on the floor, each sporting new bruises and snarling in each other's faces, Barry doesn't doubt Dibny's prediction would have come true. Hating himself, he shoves at Dibny and Dibny reluctantly gets up, straightening his jacket with great aplomb. Chrye steps forward and growls, "Get out."

Dibny says, "You're lucky, Allen. You got more fathers than anybody I know." Then, smirking, he adds, "'Cept where it matters."

Barry launches himself to his feet, blinded with fury, filled with rage that wanted to break free and hurt somebody for years, anxious and eager to sink its teeth into somebody, but Chrye catches him and Chyre is a brick wall, unyielding and unafraid to argue forcefully. "Get out," he tells Dibny again in a voice that says _last warning_ , and Dibny finally heeds him, retreating without a word.

Standing alone in the room, filled with terrible emotions, Barry lurches out of Chrye's grasp. "How hard 'd he hit you?" Chrye asks, tapping the skin below his own left eye. Barry can feel his face throbbing, knows it's bruising – and doesn't care. There's a hollowness filling him, a sense of anguish wiping out everything else, the same sense of defeat that hit him when he finally realized no matter how much he begged or sobbed or screamed, nobody was gonna believe him.

_Your dad killed your mom._

"I have to go," he says in a voice that he hopes conveys agitation more than upset, like the scared little boy he has always been, running away, fleeing his problems, and Chrye lets him run, thank _God_ Chrye lets him run because he barely makes it to the staircase before crumpling, curling up on the steps and sobbing into his sleeves.

 _This isn't your fault_ , he wants to console himself, but it doesn't change a damn thing.

* * *

Within a month, Dibny is badge-less and disgraced, and Reagan Giblin is free.

It's the second-worst Christmas of Barry's life.

He puts on the greatest show of normalcy that he can for Iris and Joe, playing off time spent away from them with a smile, just gonna hang out with some guys, just gonna work on this case, just gonna get some air, until he runs out of excuses.

He keeps running, burying himself in the work, and never mentions "Ralph Dibny" to Iris.

* * *

But when Dibny returns, when he inevitably unburies himself from that long dead part of Barry's past, before-the-lightning, Barry doesn't expect the sudden mix of fury and bitterness, the hollowness in his tone when he talks about Dibny, the lack of regret for his actions.

 _Dibny wasn't innocent_ , he tells himself firmly, tells his family firmly as he writes the word 'villains' on the board. If the Speed Force taught him one thing – and it tries to teach him ten thousand things, crowding out his daily life until all he can hear-think-breathe is Speed Force, it's so _loud_ sometimes – it's that he doesn't have to carry the weight of other people.

He can let them go, let them be a part of his past, and move on.

And if the past returns, he can close the coffin on the case just as firmly as before, with dry eyes this time, refusing to mourn that which he did not do wrong, _Dibny brought it on himself._

His family stops a fight that wants to happen, prevents a second opportunity that Barry aches for because before he wasn't strong and fierce and fast like he is now, he couldn't have done much damage, but he could do a _lot_ of damage now, break Dibny from the soul-up, and it finally pulls him back a little when he realizes just how _personal_ it is.

 _I don't hate you_ , he thinks, and forces himself to look at Dibny and repeat it, _I don't hate you_ , until he can finally bring himself to look at the man he had to villainize and admit, _I need your help._

And Dibny helps him save Joe.

He loses track of Dibny in the rush of endorphins that follows because Joe says _Cecile's pregnant_ and Barry barely touches down with him before he hunts down Wally, accidentally tackles him when he finds him, explaining in a rush that he has to come back there's an urgent matter and Wally just zips off, no-question, Barry stumbling after him, and then Wally is laughing in relief when he skids into Joe's living room and Cecile and Joe and Iris are there with cake, and he punches Barry's shoulder when Barry slides into view because _I thought someone was dying, dude_ and Barry's never been happier to laugh with him because thank God, thank God, for once it's not a dire moment that brings them together.

But in the morning when he must acknowledge the world out there, _this is bigger than you_ , and he must own up to his words in the crisis, his promises in the twilight hour, he finds Dibny at his office, restored in a moment of camaraderie, and he dares to say, "I'm ready to give you another chance."

Dibny sits back in his chair, hands intertwined behind his head, feet up on the desk. There's a slight smirk on his face. He says dryly, "You're glowing."

Barry looks down at himself reflexively, but for once the lightning is quiet enough he doesn't see it. Meeting Dibny's gaze again, he allows, "Cecile's pregnant."

Dibny frowns. "I thought her name was Iris."

"Joe's girlfriend," Barry clarifies, heart skipping a beat at the thought, _Iris is pregnant_. He knows his face flushes with joy that at the thought, but he straightens his shoulders, reeling himself back to the present, and tells Dibny, "You're with us now. And we might operate outside the law, but we still seek justice."

"Justice," Dibny muses. Barry waits, letting him process it, and Dibny finally sits up, letting his feet drop. "I can roll with that," he says at last. Extending his hand, he adds, "Does that make us partners?"

Barry huffs a little, but he shakes Dibny's hand. "Don't push it."

"Cool." Letting Barry go, Dibny leans back, replacing his feet on the desk. "You've grown, kid."

"Yeah. I'm getting better," he admits, and leaves Dibny, trusting him to follow on his own, to make his mistakes and triumphs on his own.

* * *

When he confronts the Speed Force itself about it that night, his Speed-father clasps him gently by the shoulders and says, "There is no price on forgiveness. You determine what you're willing to accept." Squeezing them, he pulls Barry in for a hug that Barry reciprocates, holding onto them, onto the steadiness in his life that does not exist outside of this great ethereal ether, and closes his eyes when his father finishes, "You seem happier."

Barry opens his eyes, and he's still in the bedroom he shares with Iris, sitting on the edge of the bed, and he can feel his father's embrace, wrapped in Speed warmth, and feels happier. Feels it to his fingertips, to his bones, as he slides back down under the sheets, closes his eyes, and joins Iris in sleep.

_I am happier._

_I am happier._


End file.
